By no means would I ever label myself a dancer. 

As a child, even with the effort and support of my parents — and the trial and error of every form of dance under the sun — it just never worked out. 

Many kids are blessed with the ability to move gracefully to a beat, but not me. I was the kid at the back who would grasp the move minutes after everyone else. I much preferred doing my own thing, which was essentially bouncing my knees while my hands swayed back and forth — you get the picture. 

Besides occasionally “breaking it down” (a term I use very loosely) at Undies every once in a while, I don’t really dance much. 

A part of me is embarrassed and ashamed that I don’t use my body as a form of deeper expression more often. Dance is one of the most passionate manners of communication. 

Through movement, a person can act out a story. Every set of motions describes multiple emotions and experiences. 

Hence, when the opportunity arose to participate in an African dance workshop led by the African and Caribbean Student Association (ACSA), I enthusiastically leapt to the challenge.

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